(Not-So) Typical Expectations
by Amora de Bella
Summary: War is a funny thing, yet completely without humor; even when it's over, it never ends. There are expectations for the future; for life when the Dark Lord has been vanquished, but what about the scars that war leaves? This is a tale about the effects of war on young psyches and trying to find oneself when everything that defined you has no purpose anymore. (3-shot, EWE)


(Not-So) Typical Expectations

Part 1 of 3

* * *

**Part 1: A British Wizard in Seattle**

* * *

It was a typical, rainy London day. Puddles, which littered the streets and sidewalks, soaked through his pant legs causing a great chill to move throughout his body. Although, if he were being honest with himself, it was not the rain that made him feel so cold; you see, although it was a typical, rainy London day, it was not London, nor was it typical. How could it be? He was a wizard in the middle of a very muggle Seattle neighborhood, a British wizard at that. All of these things made him stand out, and though he had always liked to stand out, he wanted nothing more than to fit into his surroundings and suddenly be able to see Big Ben, rather than the Space Needle. Despite all of this; here he was on this typical, rainy London day in the (also typical) rainy Seattle.

One might wonder why he was trudging through the streets of downtown Seattle on a (not-so) typical rainy Saturday; Merlin knows he wondered as such with each step he took. Twice as much when he encountered a puddle. Why, knowing he was a wizard did he not simply apparate to his destination, or repel the rain, even something as simple as conjuring an umbrella? That was the only thing that he was adamant about knowing, however, that using magic came with using your magical signature. Magical signatures were not something that one went throwing about when one was trying to be discreet, particularly when the purpose for this discretion was exceptionally gifted with magic and magical signatures.

You see it was all about strategy, and he knew strategy. Years of playing wizards chess with his dorm mates at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and that whole running from and eventual over-taking of a Dark Lord, had taught him the art and skill of strategy. When one needed to be discreet, one did not go bandying spells around and alerting the population to there being a wizard about and practically signing your name to the spell, all bad strategy. No, what he was doing was the way to go: suffer for a bit in the rain, sneak attack from the entry way, blitz for information, and so on from there. He had been through much worse than puddles in his time; that he could handle. It was what awaited him, the reasoning for his strategy that made him anxious.

This had been a long time coming; when this was complete he could finally rest. In his mind, the war with the Dark-Lord-Who-Refused-to-Die wouldn't end until this was resolved. He had hunted countless Death Eaters, informants, and "allies" of Voldemort in the 5 years since the war. Everyone back home in typical, rainy London and beyond saw him as a hero, the shining example of what they all had been fighting for, a prime example of what to strive for. They didn't see what this did to him; how the constant battles made him slowly die inside. He questioned whether or not he could keep doing this. Could he really keep fighting the same fight that he had been thrust into at 11 years old? A fight that was supposed to end when Tom Riddle (aka: Lord Voldemort) was destroyed at the Battle of Hogwarts.

Turns out, these things have a way of never ending. For every rogue Death Eater he, or his colleagues, caught, another 3 were revealed and suddenly on the run. He was in his early twenties, but he felt like he was over 100. He didn't think that he could keep this up, and he hoped that once this was complete that he could call it quits, hang up his hat and his holster and kiss his Auror days good-bye. Maybe this catch would be enough to satisfy the need to keep on plowing forward, the high to find the next one?

He hoped that was the case, but the truth was that he has no idea (for once) what he was walking into. This made his strategy weak and his preparation almost non-existent. In fact, one might say that he had gone off half-cocked when he received this tip. He immediately petitioned for an international Portkey and had arrived in Seattle within the week. He had thought about the after-effects of what he was doing, but he did not plan through the entire reality. He knew the benefit of strategy, and he was struggling to come up with one!

Soon he stopped at a crosswalk and waited for the cars to pass, and darted through to the other side when he saw a chance. He could hear a horn blare behind him, but as he had not been hit, he kept on walking until he reached a row of homes that lined up like those in London. His first thought was of Griummauld Place, and he felt a brief flash of panic thinking that the place might have a secret keeper, but then he realized that he had the address so either it did not, or the secret keeper was a real tosser. Either way, it did not matter to him, he was more concern with what he might say or do to develop a plan, a strategy as he reached his destination. He was going in alone and no one knew where he had gone. This was not going to be easy, and he steeled himself as he climbed the four steps to the door and reached into his sleeve for his wand. He had no intention of using it just yet, but knowing that it was nearby made him feel more stable and assured of his position.

He was ready. He set his shoulders back and planted his feet firmly in place. Nothing would move him, but himself. He hardened his eyes and thought about what this could mean if he pulled it off, if he got it right. He had nothing but expectations when he set out for Seattle, and now he was gifted with expectations and resolve. "_It's no use, I've found you," _he thought, "_and running is pointless." _Breathing in a cleansing breath, and exhaling, he brought his fist to the wooden door and began to pound in short, rapid, strikes: _Boom. Boom. Boom. _Each rap on the door was followed by a period of brief, miniscule silence that alluded to his short patience. He desperately wanted to pound the door rapidly, and with no or finesse, but this was the strategy. Knock. Be intimidating, but not frightening. Get the door open, and go from there.

He heard a scratchy voice reply from inside the wooden barrier that it was on its way. He heard footsteps, firm and heavy on what he assumed to be wooden floors. They grew louder as the voice grew closer to the door. With each increase in proximity, his heart beat faster and the blood in his veins began to pound a little harder. Finally he heard a hand grasp the door knob and felt his blood begin to chill like the rain as it was turned ever so slowly. He wasn't ready for this; he couldn't believe that he was really doing this on his own. What had he been thinking? The door began to open, far too quickly for his taste, and he found himself facing one of his targets. The man in front of him did not look surprised, rather resigned. He rubbed a hand over the stubble on his jaw and breathed a sigh of, was that annoyance? Resignation? Frustration? As he grasped his slightly disheveled hair, he merely nodded at him with a wan smile on his face. He moved back and stretched his arm out as he said, "Come in Ron, it's been a while. "

* * *

Ron hesitated before walking past his target, frustration tinging his cheeks and ears red. "_Come in Ron, it's been a while._" That's it? He was half-inclined to shut the door and force the target to do this all over again until he got a proper acknowledgment, but then his rational side caught up to him and realized that this cooperative manner might not last so long, particularly if he were to fall back on old behaviors and fly off the handle. He moved past the target, careful not to touch him as he walked by and stood awkwardly in the hallway as the door was shut and locked. Surprisingly there was no magic placed to reinforce the looks on the door, just a simple lock, deadbolt, and chain-lock's that were standard in many muggle homes.

Ron saw that his target had brushed past him and was moving toward a couch set not far from him in what he assumed was the family room or den. He could hear his instructor at the Auror academy, _"Always know your exits," _in his head, and to fulfill this compulsion he looked once more at the door he had entered through and did a cursory glance for any additional exits nearby. He noted two windows in the front room, where his target had led him. Satisfied, he nodded to himself and entered the room where his target sat with the wan smile still on his face and a hand extended to the chair across from him.

Ron gingerly took a seat and fixed his gaze on his target, his eyes performing a cursory glance from top to bottom. He noted the changes in his target from their last encounter and cataloged them in the back of his mind as he prepared h8imself to speak to the man in front of him for the first time in four years. As he gazed on the man in front of him, he felt his anger rise up once more, but not for the lackluster response to his arrival. He felt his throat constrict in an effort to keep from screaming the thoughts that sped through his mind; he needed a level head if he wanted the information that he sought. He cleared his throat and locked eyes with the man in front of him.

"You look well, Harry. I half expected you to be holed up in some dark flat sipping liquor and glaring out angrily at the world."

Harry Potter produced a half smile and chuckled lightly at the comment. "Sorry to disappoint, would you like me to dim the lights and find some dreary clothes?"

Ron felt his hackles rise yet again, and this time he had no intention to stop the onslaught that would follow. "Really, Harry" he snapped, "Four years and all I get is _Come in, it's been a while_ and some lame joke! You obviously were expecting me at some point so please explain why you had to disappear at all! I've been looking for your arse for four bloody years and either you start talking or I start beating my damn answers out of you!" As he spoke his voice steadily rose, and he noted that Harry began to grow tenser with each octave.

"Lower your damn voice," Harry hissed. "Get mad all you want, but I swear to Merlin if you don't keep your tone at a decent register I will kick your arse out. No matter how glad I find myself to see you."

Harry glanced upwards, towards the second floor and paused for a bit, his ear cocked as if waiting for a sound from above. Ron threw himself back into the seat and huffed. Strategy was out the window it seemed. It seemed that no matter how much he had matured, once he was around Harry, a part of him would always be the hot-headed Ron Weasley. He found himself oddly glad at that realization. It appeared that he wasn't as dead inside as his endless witch hunts had made him feel. He was now up to two more emotions, anger and frustration. He had half convinced himself that all he could feel any more was emptiness and determination. That's what led him here after all; his emptiness and determination to fill it with explanations.

"Alright, I won't yell if you just tell me where the hell you have been for the past four years and when you were planning to clue me in you bloody wanker."

Harry; seemingly satisfied with the nothingness upstairs, placed his head in his hands and ran them through his perpetually messy hair, tugging lightly at the roots as he gathered his thoughts. He began to bite his lip and looked casually out the window and craned his neck as if to see around the corner. Ron watched as he ranked on hand down his face and over his mouth. It appeared that Ron had discovered a new nervous tick belonging to his childhood mate. He hadn't even been there a half an hour and Harry had been fondling his face as if he couldn't get enough of the feel of dry whiskers on rough, calloused skin. He laughed out loud at the absurdity of this thought and drew Harry's attention back to himself with a snap of his head.

Harry shook his head as if to clear debris from between his ears and placed his elbows on his knees, leaning forward slightly as he faced Ron. Ron was surprised that Harry met his gaze so steadily; all of his prior actions since they were reunited had led him to believe that he would not be so quick to provide a straight answer, but the assured and firm look about Harry told a different story.

"First I was in Melbourne. Then I went to Salem, followed by a brief jaunt to Austin. Then I moved back into Europe, went to Paris and Calais. Berlin was a very brief stop. All of this took about six months, I never stayed anywhere long. I suppose you could say that I found what I was looking for in New York. Then it was decided that Seattle was a good place to stay. I've been here for three years. Except for the accent and a good tea shoppe, I honestly feel like I could be in London most days. You know, what with the fog and rain and what have you.

"Most of the early travels were following leads, which led to nothing. I would follow another lead, and wind up doing random circles around everything, everywhere. I just got lucky that I found what I was looking for before I ran out of funds. I traveled and lived like a muggle: airplanes, cars, train. I stayed in hostels or cheap hotels until I moved on; never in a place for a week at a time. "

Harry paused for a moment, to seemingly gather his thoughts. He looked down toward the ground and placed his head in his hands once more, his elbows still firmly on his knees as his hands pulled at his roots once more. "The rest is history really, like I said, moved to Seattle and been here ever since. About a year ago, moved from a flat to the townhouse here and that's that."

As he finished his monologue, Harry righted his body, straightening up and moving his hands to his knees, pushing the weight of his body into a more rigid sitting position. Ron stared at him, flabbergasted by the complete lack of information that spilled forth in that explanation. He could feel his agitation rising, and balled up his hand in what might have been a subconscious attempt to punch Harry right in his poorly groomed jaw.

"Well," he growled at the Boy-Who-Lived-to-Piss-Him-Off," thanks so much for clarifying that for me. I feel so much better knowing that you traveled for no damn reason for a year until you found a place like London, when you could have been in bloody London."

Harry leaned back on the couch and cast another wry smile in Ron's direction, "I could never be in London. I will never be in London again. I seriously doubt I will ever step foot in the UK again as long as I live. I have everything I need here, and I expect that if I need anything else it will come to me."

Ron was full on seeing red at this point. Harry, his best mate since he was 11 years old had left. This was a well-established fact, but he had not given a good reason for his departure; nor had he given one for his lack of contact. Best mates who fought Death Eaters, Dementors, and Detention together for eight years. Hell, they were bloody brothers in Ron's mind. Now, Ron discovered that none of this meant anything to Harry, there was an underlying giddiness when he spoke of his distance and travels that left all of the British ministry and its people; as well as the world, in an uproar. He left behind everything,_ and everyone_, with not a care. He showed no remorse or sense of loss at how he had treated his friends; his family. This was not the Harry that Ron had known.

Ron had convinced himself that there was some noble purpose to Harry's disappearance, and that was why he kept fighting and taking down Death Eaters until he could barely function. He assumed that there was some altruistic purpose to some greater all-encompassing mission. Harry had left before and it had been the start of something big in their lives: missions, knowledge, and bonding, what have you. Not this time though; this time Harry just left and waved his middle finger to the world and his friends. Ron had continued fighting for the ideal that Harry represented until he too represented justice. Only to find, that Harry was not crusading the wizarding world's wrongs and protecting them from future threats. Instead, he was playing hop the globe and "following leads" until he found a place with a climate that he favored!

At that moment, Ron felt as if everything that he had built his life on since the war had ended was a lie. He finally allowed himself to feel abandoned by his best mate; his brother. Finally allowed the fury at his mother and sister's broken hearts to take hold. As he sat there, watching Harry's lack of response and concern, his fury mounted until it brought him to his feet in a tremendous tidal wave of anger. He barely registered the chair that had been supporting his weight flying back into the wall, creating a resounding echo of a crash as it did so. Harry surged to his feet following the noise, anger drowning in his green irises as he faced Ron's wand which was aimed at his chest.

Ron reared back in confusion, wasn't he the one rising to be angry, wand drawn and furious? Why was Harry suddenly frightening in his anger? Why was his anger melding into fear? He saw the way that raw magic crackled around Harry's fingers; balled into tight fists. He prepared himself to be thrown into the street via a very powerful hex, and then he was suddenly alone. Harry was no longer in the room.

Ron allowed the roaring blood to calm in his ears and as his hearing returned, he picked up on something that he had not noticed; a loud cry from upstairs. Ron, realizing that Harry had run upstairs in his rage worried that maybe Harry had harmed himself in a desire to not harm him. It seemed like a reasonable Harry thing to do, right? One would assume that his hero tactic behaviors would continue to manifest even when he had been a giant selfish prat, right?

Ron raced up the stairs, wand still drawn and ready. He rounded the corner and the closer he got to his injured friend the more peculiar the sound became. He heard two voices as he neared the caterwauling, the other soft and caring; soothing the savage pain. Ron found himself confused; truly this visit had disoriented him. He had never been aware of another person in the house, and he hadn't registered that the wailing was not Harry.

Now; do not misinterpret the situation, Ron Weasley is an exceptional Auror with excellent skills and instincts. So it can only be assumed that his lack of judgment and increasing confusion stirred from his disorientation at seeing his "long lost friend." As he managed to calm himself and focus, he rounded the corner with his wand at the ready; only to find himself thrown back onto his bum. He couldn't believe what was in front of him, and he berated himself for not putting the clues together as the climbed the stairs. _This, this was too much to process_, he thought as he glanced into the room.

The room was small, but faced a large window which filled it with a great deal of natural lighting. Decorated in greens and yellows, an odd animal placed on the wall; without movement, was a nursery, and in the center of this nursery stood Harry Potter, soothing a crying child.

* * *

As he began to right himself, Ron picked him and back up from where he had dropped it, only to be met with a fierce look from Harry and quiet hiss to "Get that thing out of here, _now Ron_!" He saw Harry motion towards his wand and began to back out slowly, eyes never leaving the child until he reached the steps and began to return to the lower floor of the home.

Ron righted the chair that he had toppled and threw himself into it once more, his heart pounding for an entirely different reason than before. _A child, there's a child upstairs_. The more he thought on it, the more questions that arose. Was this child the reason that Harry left England? How did Harry come to care for him? _What the bloody hell was going on?!_

This was a not-so typical occurrence, and Ron as thrown for a loop. All he knew so far was that there was a child upstairs; whom Ron more than likely woke up with his exclamations and the crash from the chair, and that Harry had a real problem with his wand being upstairs. Ron wracked his brain for the image of the child; all he could recall from his brief glimpse was that the child was definitely not an infant; maybe 2 or 3 years old. The child had short hair; maybe he was a boy, and it was dark. Actually his; well maybe his, hair matched Harry's almost exactly. Ron's blood began to run both hot and cold as he heard the sounds of footsteps coming down the staircase and toward the front room where he was currently perched.

Harry turned the corner, whispering things that seemed to bring small giggles from the child in his arms. The boy perhaps? He sat down in front of Ron, placing the child on his lap and snuggling him into his chest, playing with his hair and smiling down at the boy with the affection that can only emanate from a father. Pride, Love, and Protection poured from his every pore and wrapped around the child, definitely a boy. Ron watched as Harry bent down slightly and kissed the crown of the boy's head as his eyes fluttered closed, lingering a bit as if to assure that they were still there and together. His eyes slowly opened as he pulled away, allowing the boy to lie back on his chest and lie down with a contented smile and sigh.

Ron was afraid to speak; he only watched the exchange, mesmerized by what was before him. His arms splayed over the armrests and his body nearly prone in the high-backed chair. He couldn't take his eyes away from the boy, and Harry, and Harry and the boy. Suddenly, he lifted his eyes away, in an attempt to break the spell that had taken him hostage in shock. What he saw only sent him further into a tailspin. _Always scan, know your surroundings, know your target._ Ron heard his Auror Academy instructor's voice again and felt like he might slap himself.

If Harry had been a real target, a Death Eater or an "ally," Ron would have been dead from the first knock due to his lack of awareness of his surroundings. Now, he looked around him and saw that the room was filled with pictures and his eyes were drawn to a mirror image of what he saw before him. Harry lay down, with a tiny baby clutched to his chest. In the photo, his head was stretched forward and down as he kissed the infant on the head with his eyes closed in rapture. The photograph did not move, it was merely an instant captured in time, and truthfully that is where the sheer beauty shone from. This one moment of incandescent happiness that radiated from a clearly new father and his beloved child. Although he knew it somewhere inside of himself, from the moment he saw the boy, Ron could finally admit within the confines of his mind that this boy was in fact _Harry's son_.

Ron felt tears well up in his eyes, his throat catching and filling with his heart. He had missed this, he should have been there. _Why couldn't, or didn't, Harry tell him? _Ron was startled from his revelry by the light pleasant sigh of a little one falling into sweet dreams. Ron turned his head slowly toward Harry and hoped that his oldest friend could read the questions in his eyes and would be willing to answer them. He watched as Harry gently moved the boy beside him, laying him down on the couch beside his _father_ with a throw pillow under his head and a blanket over his small body, his tiny hands tucked under his chin.

"His name is Jamie. Jameson Ronald Potter."

Ron was startled by the tears that were running down his cheeks, pooling in the cracks of his lips and teasing his mouth with bitter salt and joy. Joy, yes this was what he was feeling. It was as if his anger had been pushed aside; although it still festered within, to make room for this inexplicable joy that made him want to jump up and cry out a large _whoop_. Harry had a _son_! This, this was what Ron had been waiting on, the ultimate sign that life goes on, that the scars of the war mean nothing. There was more than fighting and fear, this little miracle, this boy-who-should-not-exist was everything that Harry, Ron and Hermione had fought for. Everything that Fred, Remus, Tonks, and so many others had died for. He felt his shoulders shudder as he let out a sob, surprising himself at this outpouring of extreme emotion.

"How old is he?" he asked quietly, never taking his eyes off of Harry's hand as it caressed _his son's_ hair.

"He just turned two, last month," was Harry's soft reply. He turned his tender gaze from his son toward Ron, and Ron saw in his eyes something that took him aback; protectiveness- fierce and determined. Harry looked just as he did before they fought the Battle of Hogwarts, and this look was aimed at _him_. Ron felt his defenses rise as he assessed how he might be a risk to _Harry's son_, and how he can show that this was not the case before Harry hexed him into next week.

"He knows nothing about magic," Harry revealed as his voice hardened. "We're not sure if he will ever know to be honest, and if he does, he will never attend school at Hogwarts. Never have to hear the stories; never be hounded for being who he is. I vowed that I would never go back there Ron, and I vowed again when Jamie was born that he would never have to go through what I did, what we did."

Ron watched as Harry's body tensed as he spoke and noted that, despite his agitation and tension, his hand never stopped softly caressing the boy's curls. He tried processing what Harry had just told him, and found himself amazed; Harry Potter did not teach his son about magic? Harry loved magic! Harry thrived on magic and the magical world! It made no sense. What happened when the child began to show signs of magic? When he received a letter to a school for witchcraft and wizardry?

Ron began to open his mouth to vocalize these questions and concerns, but was silenced as Harry raised a finger, asking him for his silence so that he might continue his monologue.

"The war- it changed me Ron. I could barely sleep, food had no taste, and the anxiety was nearly causing my heart to pound from my chest. Rest never came, and soon I just couldn't function. I stayed doped on so many Dreamless Sleep Potions that I grew dependent. Dreamless Sleep, Pepper-up, Cheering Charms, that's how I got through life after the war. I did what was expected of me. I joined the Auror Academy, I purchased a home in Godric's Hollow, and I started trying to become part of the Weasley family."

It was with the comment that Ron remembered that part if his anger that was still boiling under the surface was in honor of his sister, Ginny, the girl that Harry had left behind when he fled on his vagabond cross-world tour. His face hardened as Harry continued, determined to remember that he was mad at Harry, the man he trusted with his sister.

"But it didn't matter," Harry stated. "As time went by, I realized how empty I was inside. I started drinking, started taking pain potions, anything to make the nightmares and the memories stop. I was told by everyone to let it go and celebrate the fact that we won, but honestly it didn't feel like we had won anything. If anything, we had reached a stalemate. If Voldemort was truly done, why were we still chasing down his followers and allies? Why did he still haunt me? No, the war never really ended. I had been fighting a war since I was 11 years old, and I was exhausted."

Harry's eyes were directed towards his son, as if he was his anchor in this world; keeping him from being consumed by the darkness that threatened to overtake him.

"I began to hate magic, resent that I had ever come to Hogwarts. If I had remained in the muggle world, I would have simply moved out and gotten a job when I reached 18. I would have had a simple, but good life. Quiet, where I wasn't scrutinized for what color socks I chose to wear that bloody morning or if I had gone round the bend.

"I hated magic, but it festered inside of me. I used it to find relief, my doctor called it "self-medicating." I was drunk or high on some pain potion more often than not, and no one noticed. No one noticed that I was slowly dying inside; crumbling under the weight of what I had been through and the war I never stopped fighting."

Harry paused and looked as if he might be ill, but he simply shook his head once more and glanced toward the mantel where a myriad of frames were located. He leaned over and kissed his son's forehead as he stood. Making his way past Ron, he reached the mantle and picked up a picture encased within a tarnished silver frame. As he glanced down at the photograph, a pained look overcame his features mixed with a sense of longing. He extended his arm towards Ron and surrendered the picture.

"No one, but _her_. Of course she knew that I was falling apart. She wound up staying with me more often than not, taking care of me and making sure that I didn't off myself in the middle of the night, I suppose. One night, I snapped. Started yelling at her, telling her to leave me alone; that she couldn't understand what I had been through. "

Ron watched as tears began to flow down Harry's face, a hard ball of dread and misery beginning to form in his own stomach.

"I will never forget that day. She looked at me, and I saw that she was just as broken as I was. In fact, I'm pretty sure that taking care of me was how she avoided coping with her own problems. She never said a word, never disputed my claims, never said good-bye." Harry began to choke up as his tears became more frequent. "She just apparated out, one loud _pop_, and that was that. She didn't come by, she didn't make sure I had eaten or slept; that I wasn't offing myself or staying high on pain potions."

Harry walked back over to the couch and sat down with as much force as a sleeping toddler would allow. He began smoothing his son's curls once more, seeming to need the comfort of feeling his presence.

"I didn't know that she had gone until you came by and told me that you couldn't find her. That's when it really cemented that I hated magic. Only magic could help you leave that quickly, it was how everyone left me. What hurt the worst though; was knowing that it was my actions that drove her away."

Ron looked at the photo in his hands. Once a wizarding photograph, Ron assumed that Harry had ended the charm that allowed the photograph to move. It was now frozen in time. Harry and Ron were smiling at the camera, their arms surrounding the small girl between them who had her arms thrown over their shoulders as she grinned. The picture had been taken during their fifth year, during a (no-so) random day when Colin Creevey was hounding everyone with his camera flash. Ron gazed mournfully down at the photograph, even at that point in their lives they had seen death and destruction, and they knew war. He stared deeply at the picture, focusing only on her. _Hermione._

* * *

He remembered when they realized that she had left. It wasn't the ransacked, empty apartment or a note that gave away her disappearance in their lives. There was neither. Hermione simply vanished into thin air, there was no note and she left behind all of her possessions. Initially, they couldn't even convince themselves that Hermione had left; they assumed that she was off doing something related to work; only to find out that Hermione had no job. The Brightest Witch of Their Age was unemployed, and they did not even know.

That was a stab in the heart, the gut, and the brain. How could they not know that their best friend was not working? That she was living off of her Order of Merlin stipend and the money left from her parent's estate when they left the continent after being memory charmed? After speaking to Harry now; however, it made more sense that she was unemployed. Hermione needed her entire day to look after Harry. She was always looking after the boys, always making sure that they thrived; even when they should have crashed and burn.

As time went by, and more facts came to light, they were forced to admit that she was gone. The most damning evidence had come last, the most frightening. It was a goodbye unlike any other. Ron felt his blood run cold as he remembered it.

* * *

_One might wonder why an Auror Trainee was breaking into the Department of Magical Registration with another Auror Trainee keeping watch at the door. If they looked closely, which well-placed Confounding Charms prevented, they would then have their questions answered; only to be replaced by additional ones. You see, these particular Auror Trainees were Harry Potter and Ron Weasley; the Man-Who-Won and his closest friend, sidekick if you will to the Boy Wonder. (Although, those of Muggle ancestry would wonder how the Boy Wonder got a sidekick, did that make Ronald Weasley Batman?)_

_These two men were perhaps the most influential in the country. Harry Potter had saved them all, and Ron Weasley had been instrumental in that saving. So, why were they even breaking into something? Surely they could have access to whatever they wished? Those who knew the men would realize that Harry Potter and Ron Weasley would never think of asking permission to do something. They would assume that the answer was no., and then decide to do it in spite of the assumption, hence the breaking and entering while still wearing their Auror Trainee garb. _

_There was a sense of desperation about them as they worked together to move into the Department of Magical Registration after hours. They move with a sense of urgency, trying to locate the magical signature of their missing friend. Harry, no stranger to magical signatures, was leading the search while Ron looked out for others who might approach and hissed utterances to hurry up at his childhood friend. _

_Within the British Ministry of Magic, all wand –owners were required to register their wand and its magical signature with the Department of Magical Registration for tracking and legal purposes. It was a tad extreme, but after the war of Unforgivables and Dark Magic, the Ministry hoped to curb this behavior by forcing all citizens to register so that they might always be accountable for the harm their magic might create. There were no names recorded, only the magical signature of each individual. The signature was then traced when any illegal activity was conducted via the wand and Aurors were dispatched to the approximate location by tracking the magical signature registered; which led them to the offending individual. Magical signatures were like fingerprints, unique and specific. _

_Harry worked rapidly, trying to locate her magical signature. All that he could trace was her presence in an apartment that he knew for a fact was currently empty. Harry had cast wards on the flat to let both he and Ron know if anyone should try to enter, and the wards had remained silent so far. Frustrated, Harry taped into the historical data, from the time shortly after his outburst, and noted that there was a large spike of magical energy expelled approximately three days after Hermione left his home in Godric's Hollow within her apartment. It was more than likely that the register was still sensing the residual magic that resulted from this enormous spike in Hermione's magic. _

_Harry assumed that Hermione must have been so angry at him that she expelled the negative energy in the form of a magical purge. He noted; however that there was a code entered on the day and time at the peak of the magical spike. He was unfamiliar with the particular code, so he looked it up in the database and found the world around him melting away as the roar of blood in his ears deafened him to reality. Ron, seeing that Harry was no longer moving; frozen in shock, ran over to his comrade and shook him as he cried out in concern. _

_Shaken from his reverie, Harry leaned to the side and wretched; narrowly missing the nearest wastebasket. Looking away from his friend being sick over the floor, Ron looked to the database parchment and was confused. All that he could see was a series of data codes; he didn't know which one he needed, or why they made Harry wretch. _

_As Harry righted himself he began to shake his head. Pulling up the spike in Hermione's magical signature once more, he compared the code to the master code key and tried to spot a mistake in vein. Ron heard Harry's crescendo of "No!" and looked toward the other parchment Harry had been using. That was when he made the connection. He located the code that was marked by a significant magical spike and looked it up in the data key in front of him. He stared at the code and looked back at the data. Suddenly he felt gravity pulling him down hard, as if the core of the earth would drag him into its depth and burn him alive. _

_Code: 23467 – Implosion of Magical Core_

_Magic gave them life. One did not just survive the implosion of their magical core._

_Hermione was dead. _

* * *

They found her wand, broken into tiny pieces, shattered and unrecognizable, later that night. There was no body, but there was no guarantee to be one. She might have been dissolved by her own magic. Ron knew for a fact, there was no way that she survived the implosion of her core. In hindsight, with the knowledge he had now, Ron wondered if Harry was right. Did Hermione use coping with Harry's problems rather than face her own? And when that was taken from her, did she possibly see no other way out?

Ron felt the bile rise in the back of his throat, just like that night so many years ago. He had failed both of his friends. They had all failed each other. Neither of the men, in their typical way, had noticed that Hermione might have been falling apart as well. They had always taken advantage of Hermione, and it appears that they might have done that until she died. The thought made Ron feel as if he might cry again.

He traced her face in the photograph and noticed that a tear had dropped onto the frame just over his own visage. It seemed fitting that he should cry for her, even in this photo. He looked up and saw Harry clutching his groggy son to his chest, shushing him back to sleep; having woken him when he brought him to his lap. It appeared to Ron that he had not been the only one to delve into memory lane at this time, and he was not the only one who needed something to ground him to reality. Ron drew his hand to his eyes, and wiped away his tears. He watched as Harry gave out a shuddered breath and prepared to continue with his explanation.

"I couldn't handle it after we found her wand," he began, "after the data key in the Department of Magical Registration. I delved deeper into the pain potions and was using Dreamless Sleep until it couldn't even know me out, or stop my dreams. It was when I started using muggle pain medication that I realized that I needed to leave. I looked around me one day and just felt the urgency, the need to get away from everything before it consumed me: the drugs, the potions, the addiction, the pain, the guilt, and the memories. I needed to go away to somewhere and pray that my demons did not follow me. I ran from everything.

"I couldn't even see you. I was crazed Ron, all I knew was that I needed to leave immediately. I took what I could from Gringotts and booked a plane ticket to Melbourne. I thought about Hermione's parents. I couldn't let them go on without knowing that she was dead. In my mind, even if they didn't remember her, they needed to know that she was gone.

"It all spiraled from there. The vagrancy, the nomadic lifestyle; I was running from myself. I found myself, really found peace, when Jamie came into my life. So the first thing I did then was settle down, give him everything I had never had. A stable home, a family, people who loved him. I left behind the entire world that had shunned me from infancy only to beg me to save it. I left it, and I don't intend to ever return. The only reason that I haven't completely disappeared is because I was certain you would come knocking one day, and I knew that I owed you this much."

Ron felt his head spin. How long had he been there? How much had he just taken in? How angry, how hurt was he? Who was this man in front of him, this child that he already felt so protective of? He opened his mouth and tried to speak, but nothing came out. He shook his head, trying to process everything, and looked down at the picture of three friends from a lifetime ago.

Harry stood and looked at the clock over the mantle. Eyebrows rising, he shook the little boy, _Jamie_, and roused him from his nap.

"Time to wake up buddy," Harry crooned at his son. "Mommy will be home soon."

Ron's head snapped up as the thought struck him,_ Mommy_. Harry had a son, there had to have been a woman involved. Harry truly had abandoned the life that he had in England. He watched as Jamie slowly came to and looked around the room, a small "Mommy" being whispered as he tried to locate her.

"She's not here yet, bud, but Daddy wants you to meet someone," Harry motioned to Ron.

Ron stood and began to shake as he approached the father and son, kneeling down to the young boy's height. Staring back at Ron was a miniature Harry with soft curls and hazel eyes. He watched as the tot rubbed his eyes and tried to focus, only for Harry to reach out on the side table and pluck a pair of glasses from the stack of magazines displayed there. Ron tried to hold back a guffaw of laughter as Harry knelt down and placed the tiny frames on his son. He really was a miniature Harry!

Harry remained on his knees and rubbed Jamie's back as he introduced Ron. "Jamie," he began, "this is an old friend of Daddy's. Remember how I told you about your Uncle Ron?"

Ron felt his heart stutter in his chest, _Uncle_.

The little boy cocked his head and moved to the mantle, looking up and suddenly becoming confused. He turned and asked Harry, "Where's the picture, Daddy?"

Ron started and held the picture up that he had in his hands, still clutched tightly. He moved it into Harry's field of vision and raised an eyebrow questioningly. As the photograph became visible, Jamie rushed forward and stopped just short of Ron; reaching out and pointing at the image of Ron in the frame. "This is Uncle Ron," he stated.

"That's right, buddy," Harry smiled. "Remember that daddy was a little boy in this picture, and now he is all grown up," he waited for Jamie to nod in the affirmative. "Well, this is Uncle Ron as a little boy, and now he is here to meet you and he's all grown up."

Ron's palms began to sweat and his heart beat erratically. He didn't know why, but he craved this child's love. He needed him to recognize him; he couldn't believe that he knew about him. He watched as Jamie turned his head ever so slightly and seemed to look him over from head to toe. He inched slowly further toward Ron and looked between the picture and the man, only to smile and nod his little head, screaming excitedly: "Uncle Ron, Daddy!"

Harry brought himself to his feet and ruffled his son's hair while chuckling, "Yeah Buddy, Uncle Ron."

Ron was surprised to find that he suddenly had a toddler in his arms, his little arms trying to reach around Ron's neck. Ron clutched the child to him and hugged him, looking up at Harry confused. He didn't understand why he was feeling such a strong reaction to this child, why he was so happy to meet someone he was wholly unrelated to and never knew existed. Harry gave him a wry smile again and called out to Jamie.

"Go on upstairs Buddy; make sure your toys are all cleaned up before Mommy gets home, alright."

Ron's arms were suddenly empty with the mention of _Mommy_, Jamie rushed upstairs with a cry of glee at his mother's imminent return and his little feet padded over their heads as he neared his room and set to work.

Ron looked toward Harry, ready to ask him a question. Ready to ask if he understood what Ron was feeling. Ready to ask why he was greeted so warmly by this child who didn't know him from Merlin. Ron wasn't ready to ask about_ Mommy_, his sister's face flashed in his mind; her desire to "wait for Harry to come back" making him feel torn.

Ron opened his mouth to ask these questions that he was ready for, and even to ask the one that he wasn't, but he was stopped by the sound of the front door opening and Harry's face changing from a look of wry acceptance to elation and then trepidation. He looked toward Ron and set his jaw, a look of determination coming across his face to stay. Ron felt confusion wash over him.

He watched as a small body came dancing into the front room, a flash of white blonde hair twirling around the lithe body. The woman came to a halt and faced Harry and Ron. She smiled widely at Ron and set her bags down as she waited in the foyer. Ron allowed his brain to focus, and registered that Luna Lovegood was standing in front of him.

Shock covered his features, and confusion. Then he looked toward Harry on his left and acted.

He heeded Harry's warning.

He forgot he even had a wand.

Ron Weasley hauled off and punched Harry Potter, hearing a sickening crack as his fist met Harry's nose.

The last thing he heard before the blood roared in his ears was Luna's quiet "Oh, my!" and a loud shriek before he too was laid out cold on the floor.

* * *

A/N: Hello Everyone! I just wanted to take a minute and let you all know that this is part 1 of a three part story; all of which has been written. I will be posting the other two parts each week until the story is complete. I hope that you enjoy it and that you read and review.

Thanks!

Amora de Bella


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